Chapter XXI: Preface

Two of these plays must be opened by the unfolding and folding of the cloth, a substitute for the rising of the curtain, and all must be closed by it. The others, _The Dreaming of the Bones_ and _Calvary_, should have the same opening, unless played after plays of the same kind, when it may seem a needless repetition. All must be played to the accompaniment of drum and zither and flute, but on no account must the words be spoken ‘through music’ in the fashionable way; and the players must move a little stiffly and gravely like marionettes and, I think, to the accompaniment of drum taps. I felt, however, during the performance of _The Hawk’s Well_, the only one played up to this, that there was much to discover. Should I make a serious attempt, which I may not, being rather tired of the theatre, to arrange and supervise performances, the dancing will give me most trouble, for I know but vaguely what I want. I do not want any existing form of stage dancing, but something with a smaller gamut of expression, something more reserved, more self-controlled, as befits performers within arm’s reach of their audience.

Mr. Edmund Dulac designed the masks and costumes used in the first performance of _The Hawk’s Well_. The beautiful mask of Cuchulain may, I think, serve for Dervorgilla, and if I write plays and organise performances on any scale and with any system, I shall hope for a small number of typical masks, each capable of use in several plays. The face of the speaker should be as much a work of art as the lines that he speaks or the costume that he wears, that all may be as artificial as possible. Perhaps in the end one would write plays for certain masks. If some fine sculptor should create for my _Calvary_, for instance, the masks of Judas, of Lazarus, and of Christ, would not this suggest other plays now, or many generations from now, and possess one cannot tell what philosophical virility? The mask, apart from its beauty, may suggest new situations at a moment when the old ones seem exhausted; _The Only Jealousy of Emer_ was written to find what dramatic effect one could get out of a mask, changed while the player remains upon the stage to suggest a change of personality. At the end of this book there is some music by Mr. Rummell, which my friends tell me is both difficult and beautiful, for _The Dreaming of the Bones_. It will require, I am told, either a number of flutes of which the flute-player will pick now one, now another, or an elaborate modern flute, which would not look in keeping. I prefer the first suggestion. I notice that Mr. Rummell has written no music for the dance, and I have some vague memory that when we talked it over in Paris he felt that he could not without the dancer’s help. There is also music for _The Hawk’s Well_ by Mr. Dulac, which is itself an exposition of method, for it was written after a number of rehearsals and for instruments that have great pictorial effect....

_At the Hawk’s Well_ and _The Only Jealousy of Emer_ are the first and last plays of a series of four dealing with Cuchulain’s life (see _Plays in Prose and Verse_).

That I might write _The Dreaming of the Bones_, Mr. W. A. Henderson with great kindness wrote out for me all historical allusions to ‘Dervorgilla’; but neither that nor any of these plays could have existed if Mr. Edmund Dulac had not taught me the value and beauty of the mask and rediscovered how to design and make it.

W. B. YEATS.

_July 1920._

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AT THE HAWK’S WELL

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_PERSONS OF THE PLAY_

THREE MUSICIANS (_their faces made up to resemble masks_).
THE GUARDIAN OF THE WELL (_with face made up to resemble a mask_).
AN OLD MAN (_wearing a mask_).
A YOUNG MAN (_wearing a mask_).

_The Time--the Irish Heroic Age._

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_The stage is any bare space before a wall against which stands a
patterned screen. A drum and a gong and a zither have been laid close
to the screen before the play begins. If necessary, they can be
carried in, after the audience is seated, by the_ FIRST MUSICIAN,
_who also can attend to the lights if there is any special lighting.
We had two lanterns upon posts--designed by Mr. Dulac--at the outer
corners of the stage, but they did not give enough light, and we
found it better to play by the light of a large chandelier. Indeed, I
think, so far as my present experience goes, that the most effective
lighting is the lighting we are most accustomed to in our rooms.
These masked players seem stranger when there is no mechanical means
of separating them from us. The_ FIRST MUSICIAN _carries with him a
folded black cloth and goes to the centre of the stage towards the
front and stands motionless, the folded cloth hanging from between
his hands. The two musicians enter and, after standing a moment at
either side of the stage, go towards him and slowly unfold the cloth,
singing as they do so_:

I call to the eye of the mind
A well long choked up and dry
And boughs long stripped by the wind,
And I call to the mind’s eye
Pallor of an ivory face,
Its lofty dissolute air,
A man climbing up to a place
The salt sea wind has swept bare.

_As they unfold the cloth, they go backward a little so that the
stretched cloth and the wall make a triangle with the_ FIRST MUSICIAN
_at the apex supporting the centre of the cloth. On the black cloth
is a gold pattern suggesting a hawk. The_ SECOND _and_ THIRD
MUSICIANS _now slowly fold up the cloth again, pacing with a rhythmic
movement of the arms towards the_ FIRST MUSICIAN _and singing_:

What were his life soon done!
Would he lose by that or win?
A mother that saw her son
Doubled over a speckled shin,
Cross-grained with ninety years,
Would cry, ‘How little worth
Were all my hopes and fears
And the hard pain of his birth!’

_The words ‘a speckled shin’ are familiar to readers of Irish legendary
stories in descriptions of old men bent double over the fire. While
the cloth has been spread out, the_ GUARDIAN OF THE WELL _has entered
and is now crouching upon the ground. She is entirely covered by a
black cloak. The three musicians have taken their places against the
wall beside their instruments of music; they will accompany the
movements of the players with gong or drum or zither._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_singing_]

The boughs of the hazel shake,
The sun goes down in the west.

SECOND MUSICIAN [_singing_]

The heart would be always awake,
The heart would turn to its rest.

[_They now go to one side of the stage rolling up the cloth. A_
GIRL _has taken her place by a square blue cloth representing a
well. She is motionless._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. Night falls; The mountain-side grows dark; The withered leaves of the hazel Half-choke the dry bed of the well; The guardian of the well is sitting Upon the old grey stone at its side, Worn out from raking its dry bed, Worn out from gathering up the leaves. Her heavy eyes Know nothing, or but look upon stone. The wind that blows out of the sea Turns over the heaped-up leaves at her side; They rustle and diminish.

SECOND MUSICIAN. I am afraid of this place.

BOTH MUSICIANS [_singing_]

‘Why should I sleep?’ the heart cries.
‘For the wind, the salt wind, the sea wind,
Is beating a cloud through the skies;
I would wander always like the wind.’

_An_ OLD MAN _enters through the audience_.

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. That old man climbs up hither, Who has been watching by his well These fifty years. He is all doubled up with age; The old thorn-trees are doubled so Among the rocks where he is climbing.

[_The_ OLD MAN _stands for a moment motionless by the side of the
stage with bowed head. He lifts his head at the sound of a drum
tap. He goes towards the front of the stage moving to the taps
of the drum. He crouches and moves his hands as if making a
fire. His movements, like those of the other persons of the
play, suggest a marionette._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. He has made a little heap of leaves; He lays the dry sticks on the leaves And, shivering with cold, he has taken up The fire-stick and socket from its hole. He whirls it round to get a flame; And now the dry sticks take the fire And now the fire leaps up and shines Upon the hazels and the empty well.

MUSICIANS [_singing_]

‘O wind, O salt wind, O sea wind!’
Cries the heart, ‘it is time to sleep;
Why wander and nothing to find?
Better grow old and sleep.’

OLD MAN [_speaking_]. Why don’t you speak to me? Why don’t you say, ‘Are you not weary gathering those sticks? Are not your fingers cold?’ You have not one word, While yesterday you spoke three times. You said: ‘The well is full of hazel leaves.’ You said: ‘The wind is from the west.’ And after that: ‘If there is rain it’s likely there’ll be mud.’ To-day you are as stupid as a fish, No, worse, worse, being less lively and as dumb.

[_He goes nearer._

Your eyes are dazed and heavy. If the Sidhe Must have a guardian to clean out the well And drive the cattle off, they might choose somebody That can be pleasant and companionable Once in the day. Why do you stare like that? You had that glassy look about the eyes Last time it happened. Do you know anything? It is enough to drive an old man crazy To look all day upon these broken rocks, And ragged thorns, and that one stupid face, And speak and get no answer.

YOUNG MAN [_who has entered through the audience during the last speech_]. Then speak to me, For youth is not more patient than old age; And though I have trod the rocks for half a day I cannot find what I am looking for.

OLD MAN. Who speaks? Who comes so suddenly into this place Where nothing thrives? If I may judge by the gold On head and feet and glittering in your coat, You are not of those who hate the living world.

YOUNG MAN. I am named Cuchulain, I am Sualtam’s son.

OLD MAN. I have never heard that name.

CUCHULAIN. It is not unknown.
I have an ancient house beyond the sea.

OLD MAN. What mischief brings you hither--you are like those Who are crazy for the shedding of men’s blood, And for the love of women?

YOUNG MAN. A rumour has led me, A story told over the wine towards dawn. I rose from table, found a boat, spread sail And with a lucky wind under the sail Crossed waves that have seemed charmed, and found this shore.

OLD MAN. There is no house to sack among these hills
Nor beautiful woman to be carried off.

YOUNG MAN. You should be native here, for that rough tongue Matches the barbarous spot. You can, it may be, Lead me to what I seek, a well wherein Three hazels drop their nuts and withered leaves, And where a solitary girl keeps watch Among grey boulders. He who drinks, they say, Of that miraculous water lives for ever.

OLD MAN. And are there not before your eyes at the instant Grey boulders and a solitary girl And three stripped hazels?

YOUNG MAN. But there is no well.

OLD MAN. Can you see nothing yonder?

YOUNG MAN. I but see
A hollow among stones half-full of leaves.

OLD MAN. And do you think so great a gift is found By no more toil than spreading out a sail, And climbing a steep hill? Oh, folly of youth, Why should that hollow place fill up for you, That will not fill for me? I have lain in wait For more than fifty years to find it empty, Or but to find the stupid wind of the sea Drive round the perishable leaves.

YOUNG MAN. So it seems
There is some moment when the water fills it.

OLD MAN. A secret moment that the holy shades That dance upon the desolate mountain know, And not a living man, and when it comes The water has scarce plashed before it is gone.

YOUNG MAN. I will stand here and wait. Why should the luck Of Sualtam’s son desert him now? For never Have I had long to wait for anything.

OLD MAN. No! Go from this accursed place, this place Belongs to me, that girl there and those others, Deceivers of men.

YOUNG MAN. And who are you who rail
Upon those dancers that all others bless?

OLD MAN. One whom the dancers cheat. I came like you When young in body and in mind, and blown By what had seemed to me a lucky sail. The well was dry, I sat upon its edge, I waited the miraculous flood, I waited While the years passed and withered me away. I have snared the birds for food and eaten grass And drunk the rain, and neither in dark nor shine Wandered too far away to have heard the plash, And yet the dancers have deceived me. Thrice I have awakened from a sudden sleep To find the stones were wet.

YOUNG MAN. My luck is strong, It will not leave me waiting, nor will they That dance among the stones put me asleep; If I grow drowsy I can pierce my foot.

OLD MAN. No, do not pierce it, for the foot is tender, It feels pain much. But find your sail again And leave the well to me, for it belongs To all that’s old and withered.

YOUNG MAN. No, I stay.

[_The_ GIRL _gives the cry of the hawk_.

There is that bird again.

OLD MAN. There is no bird.

YOUNG MAN. It sounded like the sudden cry of a hawk, But there’s no wing in sight. As I came hither A great grey hawk swept down out of the sky, And though I have good hawks, the best in the world I had fancied, I have not seen its like. It flew As though it would have torn me with its beak, Or blinded me, smiting with that great wing. I had to draw my sword to drive it off, And after that it flew from rock to rock. I pelted it with stones, a good half-hour, And just before I had turned the big rock there And seen this place, it seemed to vanish away. Could I but find a means to bring it down I’d hood it.

OLD MAN. The woman of the Sidhe herself, The mountain witch, the unappeasable shadow. She is always flitting upon this mountain-side, To allure or to destroy. When she has shown Herself to the fierce women of the hills Under that shape they offer sacrifice And arm for battle. There falls a curse On all who have gazed in her unmoistened eyes; So get you gone while you have that proud step And confident voice, for not a man alive Has so much luck that he can play with it. Those that have long to live should fear her most, The old are cursed already. That curse may be Never to win a woman’s love and keep it; Or always to mix hatred in the love; Or it may be that she will kill your children, That you will find them, their throats torn and bloody, Or you will be so maddened that you kill them With your own hand.

YOUNG MAN. Have you been set down there To threaten all who come, and scare them off? You seem as dried up as the leaves and sticks, As though you had no part in life.

[GIRL _gives hawk cry again_.

That cry! There is that cry again. That woman made it, But why does she cry out as the hawk cries?

OLD MAN. It was her mouth, and yet not she, that cried. It was that shadow cried behind her mouth; And now I know why she has been so stupid All the day through, and had such heavy eyes. Look at her shivering now, the terrible life Is slipping through her veins. She is possessed. Who knows whom she will murder or betray Before she awakes in ignorance of it all, And gathers up the leaves! But they’ll be wet; The water will have come and gone again; That shivering is the sign. Oh, get you gone, At any moment now I shall hear it bubble. If you are good you will leave it. I am old, And if I do not drink it now, will never; I have been watching all my life and maybe Only a little cupful will bubble up.

YOUNG MAN. I’ll take it in my hands. We shall both drink, And even if there are but a few drops, Share them.

OLD MAN. But swear that I may drink the first; The young are greedy, and if you drink the first You’ll drink it all. Ah, you have looked at her; She has felt your gaze and turned her eyes on us; I cannot bear her eyes, they are not of this world, Nor moist, nor faltering; they are no girl’s eyes.

[_He covers his head. The_ GUARDIAN OF THE WELL _throws off her
cloak and rises. Her dress under the cloak suggests a hawk._

YOUNG MAN. Why do you gaze upon me with the eyes of a hawk?
I am not afraid of you, bird, woman, or witch.

[_He goes to the side of the well, which the_ GUARDIAN OF THE
WELL _has left_.

Do what you will, I shall not leave this place Till I have grown immortal like yourself.

[_He has sat down, the_ GIRL _has begun to dance, moving like a
hawk. The_ OLD MAN _sleeps. The dance goes on for some time._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_singing or half-singing_]

O God, protect me
From a horrible deathless body
Sliding through the veins of a sudden.

[_The dance goes on for some time. The_ YOUNG MAN _rises slowly_.

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. The madness has laid hold upon him now,
For he grows pale and staggers to his feet.

[_The dance goes on._

YOUNG MAN. Run where you will, Grey bird, you shall be perched upon my wrist, Some were called queens and yet have been perched there.

[_The dance goes on._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. I have heard water plash! it comes, it
comes;
It glitters among the stones and he has heard the plash;
Look, he has turned his head.

[_The Hawk has gone out. The_ YOUNG MAN _drops his spear as if in
a dream and goes out_.

MUSICIANS [_singing_]

He has lost what may not be found
Till men heap his burial mound
And all the history ends.
He might have lived at his ease,
An old dog’s head on his knees,
Among his children and friends.

[_The_ OLD MAN _creeps up to the well_.

OLD MAN. The accursed shadows have deluded me, The stones are dark and yet the well is empty; The water flowed and emptied while I slept; You have deluded me my whole life through. Accursed dancers, you have stolen my life. That there should be such evil in a shadow!

YOUNG MAN [_entering_]. She has fled from me and hidden in the
rocks.

OLD MAN. She has but led you from the fountain. Look! The stones and leaves are dark where it has flowed, Yet there is not a drop to drink.

[_The Musicians cry ‘Eofe! Eofe!’ and strike gong._

YOUNG MAN. What are those cries? What is that sound that runs along the hill? Who are they that beat a sword upon a shield?

OLD MAN. She has roused up the fierce women of the hills, Eofe, and all her troop, to take your life, And never till you are lying in the earth Can you know rest.

YOUNG MAN. The clash of arms again!

OLD MAN. Oh, do not go! The mountain is accursed; Stay with me, I have nothing more to lose, I do not now deceive you.

YOUNG MAN. I will face them.

[_He goes out no longer as if in a dream, but shouldering his
spear and calling_:

He comes! Cuchulain, son of Sualtam, comes!

[_The Musicians stand up; one goes to centre with folded cloth.
The others unfold it. While they do so they sing. During the
singing, and while hidden by the cloth, the_ OLD MAN _goes out.
When the play is performed with Mr. Dulac’s music, the
Musicians do not rise or unfold the cloth till after they have
sung the words ‘a bitter life.’_

[_Songs for the unfolding and folding of the cloth._]

Come to me, human faces,
Familiar memories;
I have found hateful eyes
Among the desolate places,
Unfaltering, unmoistened eyes.

Folly alone I cherish,
I choose it for my share;
Being but a mouthful of air,
I am content to perish;
I am but a mouthful of sweet air.

O lamentable shadows,
Obscurity of strife,
I choose a pleasant life,
Among indolent meadows;
Wisdom must live a bitter life.

[_They then fold up the cloth, singing._

‘The man that I praise,’
Cries out the empty well,
‘Lives all his days
Where a hand on the bell
Can call the milch cows
To the comfortable door of his house.
Who but an idiot would praise
Dry stones in a well?

‘The man that I praise,’
Cries out the leafless tree,
‘Has married and stays
By an old hearth, and he
On naught has set store
But children and dogs on the floor.
Who but an idiot would praise
A withered tree?’

[_They go out._

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THE ONLY JEALOUSY OF EMER

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_PERSONS OF THE PLAY_

THREE MUSICIANS (_their faces made up to resemble masks_).
THE GHOST OF CUCHULAIN (_wearing a mask_).
THE FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN (_wearing a mask_).
EMER } (_masked, or their faces made up
EITHNE INGUBA } to resemble masks_).
WOMAN OF THE SIDHE (_wearing a mask_).

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_Enter Musicians, who are dressed and made up as in ‘At the Hawk’s
Well.’ They have the same musical instruments, which can either be
already upon the stage or be brought in by the_ FIRST MUSICIAN
_before he stands in the centre with the cloth between his hands, or
by a player when the cloth has been unfolded. The stage as before can
be against the wall of any room, and the same black cloth can be used
as in ‘At the Hawk’s Well.’_

[_Song for the folding and unfolding of the cloth._]

FIRST MUSICIAN. A woman’s beauty is like a white Frail bird, like a white sea-bird alone At daybreak after stormy night Between two furrows upon the ploughed land: A sudden storm and it was thrown Between dark furrows upon the ploughed land. How many centuries spent The sedentary soul In toils of measurement Beyond eagle or mole, Beyond hearing or seeing, Or Archimedes’ guess, To raise into being That loveliness?

A strange unserviceable thing, A fragile, exquisite, pale shell, That the vast troubled waters bring To the loud sands before day has broken. The storm arose and suddenly fell Amid the dark before day had broken. What death? what discipline? What bonds no man could unbind Being imagined within The labyrinth of the mind, What pursuing or fleeing, What wounds, what bloody press Dragged into being This loveliness?

[_When the cloth is folded again the Musicians take their place
against the wall. The folding of the cloth shows on one side of
the stage the curtained bed or litter on which lies a man in
his grave-clothes. He wears an heroic mask. Another man with
exactly similar clothes and mask crouches near the front._ EMER
_is sitting beside the bed_.

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. I call before the eyes a roof With cross-beams darkened by smoke; A fisher’s net hangs from a beam, A long oar lies against the wall. I call up a poor fisher’s house; A man lies dead or swooning, That amorous man, That amorous, violent man, renowned Cuchulain, Queen Emer at his side. At her own bidding all the rest have gone; But now one comes on hesitating feet, Young Eithne Inguba, Cuchulain’s mistress. She stands a moment in the open door, Beyond the open door the bitter sea, The shining, bitter sea, is crying out, [_singing_] White shell, white wing! I will not choose for my friend A frail unserviceable thing That drifts and dreams, and but knows That waters are without end And that wind blows.

EMER [_speaking_]. Come hither, come sit down beside the bed; You need not be afraid, for I myself Sent for you, Eithne Inguba.

EITHNE INGUBA. No, Madam,
I have too deeply wronged you to sit there.

EMER. Of all the people in the world we two, And we alone, may watch together here, Because we have loved him best.

EITHNE INGUBA. And is he dead?

EMER. Although they have dressed him out in his grave-clothes And stretched his limbs, Cuchulain is not dead; The very heavens when that day’s at hand, So that his death may not lack ceremony, Will throw out fires, and the earth grow red with blood. There shall not be a scullion but foreknows it Like the world’s end.

EITHNE INGUBA. How did he come to this?

EMER. Towards noon in the assembly of the kings He met with one who seemed a while most dear. The kings stood around; some quarrel was blown up; He drove him out and killed him on the shore At Baile’s tree, and he who was so killed Was his own son begot of some wild woman When he was young, or so I have heard it said; And thereupon, knowing what man he had killed, And being mad with sorrow, he ran out; And after, to his middle in the foam With shield before him and with sword in hand, He fought the deathless sea. The kings looked on And not a king dared stretch an arm, or even Dared call his name, but all stood wondering In that dumb stupor like cattle in a gale, Until at last, as though he had fixed his eyes On a new enemy, he waded out Until the water had swept over him; But the waves washed his senseless image up And laid it at this door.

EITHNE INGUBA. How pale he looks!

EMER. He is not dead.

EITHNE INGUBA. You have not kissed his lips
Nor laid his head upon your breast.

EMER. It may be An image has been put into his place, A sea-borne log bewitched into his likeness, Or some stark horseman grown too old to ride Among the troops of Mananan, Son of the Sea, Now that his joints are stiff.

EITHNE INGUBA. Cry out his name. All that are taken from our sight, they say, Loiter amid the scenery of their lives For certain hours or days, and should he hear He might, being angry, drive the changeling out.

EMER. It is hard to make them hear amid their darkness, And it is long since I could call him home; I am but his wife, but if you cry aloud With that sweet voice that is so dear to him He cannot help but listen.

EITHNE INGUBA. He loves me best, Being his newest love, but in the end Will love the woman best who loved him first And loved him through the years when love seemed lost.

EMER. I have that hope, the hope that some day somewhere
We’ll sit together at the hearth again.

EITHNE INGUBA. Women like me, the violent hour passed over, Are flung into some corner like old nutshells. Cuchulain, listen.

EMER. No, not yet, for first I’ll cover up his face to hide the sea; And throw new logs upon the hearth and stir The half-burnt logs until they break in flame. Old Mananan’s unbridled horses come Out of the sea, and on their backs his horsemen; But all the enchantments of the dreaming foam Dread the hearth-fire.

[_She pulls the curtains of the bed so as to hide the sick man’s
face, that the actor may change his mask unseen. She goes to
one side of platform and moves her hand as though putting logs
on a fire and stirring it into a blaze. While she makes these
movements the Musicians play, marking the movements with drum
and flute perhaps._

_Having finished she stands beside the imaginary fire at a
distance from_ CUCHULAIN _and_ EITHNE INGUBA.

Call on Cuchulain now.

EITHNE INGUBA. Can you not hear my voice?

EMER. Bend over him; Call out dear secrets till you have touched his heart If he lies there; and if he is not there Till you have made him jealous.

EITHNE INGUBA. Cuchulain, listen.

EMER. Those words sound timidly; to be afraid Because his wife is but three paces off, When there is so great a need, were but to prove The man that chose you made but a poor choice: We’re but two women struggling with the sea.

EITHNE INGUBA. O my beloved, pardon me, that I Have been ashamed and you in so great need. I have never sent a message or called out, Scarce had a longing for your company But you have known and come; and if indeed You are lying there, stretch out your arms and speak; Open your mouth and speak, for to this hour My company has made you talkative. What ails your tongue, or what has closed your ears? Our passion had not chilled when we were parted On the pale shore under the breaking dawn. He cannot speak: or else his ears are closed And no sound reaches him.

EMER. Then kiss that image; The pressure of your mouth upon his mouth May reach him where he is.

EITHNE INGUBA [_starting back_]. It is no man. I felt some evil thing that dried my heart When my lips touched it.

EMER. No, his body stirs; The pressure of your mouth has called him home; He has thrown the changeling out.

EITHNE INGUBA [_going further off_]. Look at that arm;
That arm is withered to the very socket.

EMER [_going up to the bed_]. What do you come for; and from where?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. I have come
From Mananan’s court upon a bridleless horse.

EMER. What one among the Sidhe has dared to lie
Upon Cuchulain’s bed and take his image?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. I am named Bricriu--not the man--that Bricriu, Maker of discord among gods and men, Called Bricriu of the Sidhe.

EMER. Come for what purpose?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN [_sitting up parting curtain and showing its
distorted face, as_ EITHNE INGUBA _goes out_]. I show my face and
everything he loves
Must fly away.

EMER. You people of the wind Are full of lying speech and mockery: I have not fled your face.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. You are not loved.

EMER. And therefore have no dread to meet your eyes
And to demand him of you.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. For that I have come.
You have but to pay the price and he is free.

EMER. Do the Sidhe bargain?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. When they would free a captive They take in ransom a less valued thing. The fisher when some knowledgeable man Restores to him his wife, or son, or daughter, Knows he must lose a boat or net, or it may be The cow that gives his children milk; and some Have offered their own lives. I do not ask Your life, or any valuable thing; You spoke but now of the mere chance that some day You’d be the apple of his eye again When old and ailing, but renounce that chance And he shall live again.

EMER. I do not question But you have brought ill luck on all he loves; And now, because I am thrown beyond your power Unless your words are lies, you come to bargain.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. You loved your mastery, when but newly married, And I love mine for all my withered arm; You have but to put yourself into that power And he shall live again.

EMER. No, never, never.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. You dare not be accursed, yet he has dared.

EMER. I have but two joyous thoughts, two things I prize,
A hope, a memory, and now you claim that hope.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. He’ll never sit beside you at the hearth Or make old bones, but die of wounds and toil On some far shore or mountain, a strange woman Beside his mattress.

EMER. You ask for my one hope
That you may bring your curse on all about him.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. You’ve watched his loves and you have not been
jealous
Knowing that he would tire, but do those tire
That love the Sidhe?

EMER. What dancer of the Sidhe,
What creature of the reeling moon has pursued him?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. I have but to touch your eyes and give them
sight;
But stand at my left side.

[_He touches her eyes with his left hand, the right being
withered._

EMER. My husband there.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. But out of reach--I have dissolved the dark That hid him from your eyes, but not that other That’s hidden you from his.

EMER. Husband, husband!

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. Be silent, he is but a phantom now And he can neither touch, nor hear, nor see; The longing and the cries have drawn him hither. He heard no sound, heard no articulate sound; They could but banish rest, and make him dream, And in that dream, as do all dreaming shades Before they are accustomed to their freedom, He has taken his familiar form; and yet He crouches there not knowing where he is Or at whose side he is crouched.

[_A_ WOMAN OF THE SIDHE _has entered and stands a little inside
the door_.

EMER. Who is this woman?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. She has hurried from the Country-Under-Wave And dreamed herself into that shape that he May glitter in her basket; for the Sidhe Are dextrous fishers and they fish for men With dreams upon the hook.

EMER. And so that woman Has hid herself in this disguise and made Herself into a lie.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. A dream is body; The dead move ever towards a dreamless youth And when they dream no more return no more; And those more holy shades that never lived But visit you in dreams.

EMER. I know her sort. They find our men asleep, weary with war, Or weary with the chase, and kiss their lips And drop their hair upon them; from that hour Our men, who yet knew nothing of it all, Are lonely, and when at fall of night we press Their hearts upon our hearts their hearts are cold.

[_She draws a knife from her girdle._

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. And so you think to wound her with a knife. She has an airy body. Look and listen; I have not given you eyes and ears for nothing.

[_The_ WOMAN OF THE SIDHE _moves round the crouching_ GHOST OF
CUCHULAIN _at front of stage in a dance that grows gradually
quicker, as he slowly awakes. At moments she may drop her hair
upon his head but she does not kiss him. She is accompanied by
string and flute and drum. Her mask and clothes must suggest
gold or bronze or brass or silver, so that she seems more an
idol than a human being. This suggestion may be repeated in her
movements. Her hair, too, must keep the metallic suggestion._

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. Who is it stands before me there Shedding such light from limb and hair As when the moon, complete at last With every labouring crescent past, And lonely with extreme delight, Flings out upon the fifteenth night?

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Because I long I am not complete. What pulled your hands about your feet And your head down upon your knees, And hid your face?

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. Old memories: A dying boy, with handsome face Upturned upon a beaten place; A sacred yew-tree on a strand; A woman that held in steady hand, In all the happiness of her youth Before her man had broken troth, A burning wisp to light the door; And many a round or crescent more; Dead men and women. Memories Have pulled my head upon my knees.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Could you that have loved many a woman That did not reach beyond the human, Lacking a day to be complete, Love one that though her heart can beat, Lacks it but by an hour or so?

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. I know you now, for long ago I met you on the mountain-side, Beside a well that seemed long dry, Beside old thorns where the hawk flew. I held out arms and hands; but you, That now seem friendly, fled away Half woman and half bird of prey.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Hold out your arms and hands again; You were not so dumbfounded when I was that bird of prey, and yet I am all woman now.

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. I am not The young and passionate man I was And though that brilliant light surpass All crescent forms, my memories Weigh down my hands, abash my eyes.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Then kiss my mouth. Though memory Be beauty’s bitterest enemy I have no dread, for at my kiss Memory on the moment vanishes: Nothing but beauty can remain.

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. And shall I never know again
Intricacies of blind remorse?

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Time shall seem to stay his course; When your mouth and my mouth meet All my round shall be complete Imagining all its circles run; And there shall be oblivion Even to quench Cuchulain’s drouth, Even to still that heart.

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. Your mouth.

[_They are about to kiss, he turns away._

O Emer, Emer.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. So then it is she
Made you impure with memory.

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. Still in that dream I see you stand, A burning wisp in your right hand, To wait my coming to the house, As when our parents married us.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Being among the dead you love her That valued every slut above her While you still lived.

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. O my lost Emer.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. And there is not a loose-tongued schemer But could draw you, if not dead, From her table and her bed. But what could make you fit to wive With flesh and blood, being born to live Where no one speaks of broken troth, For all have washed out of their eyes Wind-blown dirt of their memories To improve their sight?

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. Your mouth, your mouth.

[_Their lips approach, but_ CUCHULAIN _turns away as_ EMER
_speaks_.

EMER. If but the dead will set him free That I may speak with him at whiles By the hearth-stone, I am content-- Content that he shall turn on me Eyes that the cold moon, or the vague sea, Or what I know not’s made indifferent.

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. What a wise silence has fallen in this dark! I know you now in all your ignorance Of all whereby a lover’s quiet is rent. What dread so great as that he should forget The least chance sight or sound, or scratch or mark On an old door, or frail bird heard and seen In the incredible clear light love cast All round about her some forlorn lost day? That face, though fine enough, is a fool’s face And there’s a folly in the deathless Sidhe Beyond man’s reach.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. I told you to forget After my fashion; you would have none of it; So now you may forget in a man’s fashion. There’s an unbridled horse at the sea’s edge; Mount; it will carry you in an eye’s wink To where the King of Country-Under-Wave, Old Mananan, nods above the board and moves His chessmen in a dream. Demand your life And come again on the unbridled horse.

GHOST OF CUCHULAIN. Forgive me those rough words. How could you know That man is held to those whom he has loved By pain they gave, or pain that he has given, Intricacies of pain.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. I am ashamed That being of the deathless shades I chose A man so knotted to impurity.

[_The_ GHOST OF CUCHULAIN _goes out_.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE [_to_ FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN]. To you that have no
living light, being dropped
From a last leprous crescent of the moon,
I owe it all.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. Because you have failed I must forego your thanks, I that took pity Upon your love and carried out your plan To tangle all his life and make it nothing That he might turn to you.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Was it from pity
You taught the woman to prevail against me?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. You know my nature--by what name I am called.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. Was it from pity that you hid the truth That men are bound to women by the wrongs They do or suffer?

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. You know what being I am.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. I have been mocked and disobeyed--your power Was more to you than my good-will, and now I’ll have you learn what my ill-will can do; I lay you under bonds upon the instant To stand before your King and face the charge And take the punishment.

FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN. I’ll stand there first, And tell my story first, and Mananan Knows that his own harsh sea made my heart cold.

WOMAN OF THE SIDHE. My horse is there and shall outrun your horse.

[_The_ FIGURE OF CUCHULAIN _falls back, the_ WOMAN OF THE SIDHE
_goes out. Drum taps, music resembling horse hoofs._

EITHNE INGUBA [_entering quickly_]. I heard the beat of hoofs, but saw no horse, And then came other hoofs, and after that I heard low angry cries and thereupon I ceased to be afraid.

EMER. Cuchulain wakes.

[_The figure turns round. It once more wears the heroic mask._

CUCHULAIN. Your arms, your arms. O Eithne Inguba,
I have been in some strange place and am afraid.

[_The_ FIRST MUSICIAN _comes to the front of stage, the others
from each side and unfold the cloth singing_.

[_Song for the unfolding and folding of the cloth._]

THE MUSICIANS

Why does your heart beat thus?
Plain to be understood
I have met in a man’s house
A statue of solitude,
Moving there and walking;
Its strange heart beating fast
For all our talking.
O still that heart at last.

O bitter reward
Of many a tragic tomb!
And we though astonished are dumb
And give but a sigh and a word,
A passing word.

Although the door be shut
And all seem well enough,
Although wide world hold not
A man but will give you his love
The moment he has looked at you,
He that has loved the best
May turn from a statue
His too human breast.

O bitter reward
Of many a tragic tomb!
And we though astonished are dumb
Or give but a sigh and a word,
A passing word.

What makes your heart so beat?
Is there no man at your side?
When beauty is complete
Your own thought will have died
And danger not be diminished;
Dimmed at three-quarter light
When moon’s round is finished
The stars are out of sight.

O bitter reward
Of many a tragic tomb!
And we though astonished are dumb
Or give but a sigh and a word,
A passing word.

[_When the cloth is folded again the stage is bare._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE DREAMING OF THE BONES

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_PERSONS OF THE PLAY_

THREE MUSICIANS (_their faces made up to resemble masks_).
A YOUNG MAN.
A STRANGER (_wearing a mask_).
A YOUNG GIRL (_wearing a mask_).

_Time_--1916.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stage is any bare place in a room close to the wall. A screen, with
a pattern of mountain and sky, can stand against the wall, or a
curtain with a like pattern hang upon it, but the pattern must only
symbolise or suggest. One musician enters and then two others; the
first stands singing, as in preceding plays, while the others take
their places. Then all three sit down against the wall by their
instruments, which are already there--a drum, a zither, and a flute.
Or they unfold a cloth as in ‘At the Hawk’s Well,’ while the
instruments are carried in.

[_Song for the folding and unfolding of the cloth._]

FIRST MUSICIAN
[_or all three musicians, singing_]

Why does my heart beat so?
Did not a shadow pass?
It passed by a moment ago.
Who can have trod in the grass?
What rogue is night-wandering?
Have not old writers said
That dizzy dreams can spring
From the dry bones of the dead?
And many a night it seems
That all the valley fills
With those fantastic dreams.
They overflow the hills,
So passionate is a shade,
Like wine that fills to the top
A grey-green cup of jade,
Or maybe an agate cup.

[_The three Musicians are now seated by the drum, flute, and
zither at the back of the stage. The_ FIRST MUSICIAN _speaks_.

The hour before dawn and the moon covered up; The little village of Abbey is covered up; The little narrow trodden way that runs From the white road to the Abbey of Corcomroe Is covered up; and all about the hills Are like a circle of Agate or of Jade. Somewhere among great rocks on the scarce grass Birds cry, they cry their loneliness. Even the sunlight can be lonely here, Even hot noon is lonely. I hear a footfall-- A young man with a lantern comes this way. He seems an Aran fisher, for he wears The flannel bawneen and the cow-hide shoe. He stumbles wearily, and stumbling prays.

[_A young man enters, praying in Irish._

Once more the birds cry in their loneliness, But now they wheel about our heads; and now They have dropped on the grey stone to the northeast.

[_A man and a girl, in the costume of a past time, come in. They
wear heroic masks._

YOUNG MAN [_raising his lantern_]. Who is there? I cannot see what
you are like.
Come to the light.

STRANGER. But what have you to fear?

YOUNG MAN. And why have you come creeping through the dark?

[_The girl blows out lantern._

The wind has blown my lantern out. Where are you? I saw a pair of heads against the sky And lost them after; but you are in the right, I should not be afraid in County Clare; And should be, or should not be have no choice, I have to put myself into your hands, Now that my candle’s out.

STRANGER. You have fought in Dublin?

YOUNG MAN. I was in the Post Office, and if taken
I shall be put against a wall and shot.

STRANGER. You know some place of refuge, have some plan
Or friend who will come to meet you?

YOUNG MAN. I am to lie At daybreak on the mountain and keep watch Until an Aran coracle puts in At Muckanish or at the rocky shore Under Finvarra, but would break my neck If I went stumbling there alone in the dark.

STRANGER. We know the pathways that the sheep tread out, And all the hiding-places of the hills, And that they had better hiding-places once.

YOUNG MAN. You’d say they had better before English robbers Cut down the trees or set them upon fire For fear their owners might find shelter there. What is that sound?

STRANGER. An old horse gone astray.
He has been wandering on the road all night.

YOUNG MAN. I took him for a man and horse. Police Are out upon the roads. In the late Rising I think there was no man of us but hated To fire at soldiers who but did their duty And were not of our race, but when a man Is born in Ireland and of Irish stock, When he takes part against us--

STRANGER. I will put you safe, No living man shall set his eyes upon you; I will not answer for the dead.

YOUNG MAN. The dead?

STRANGER. For certain days the stones where you must lie
Have in the hour before the break of day Been haunted.

YOUNG MAN. But I was not born at midnight.

STRANGER. Many a man that was born in the full daylight Can see them plain, will pass them on the high-road Or in the crowded market-place of the town, And never know that they have passed.

YOUNG MAN. My Grandam Would have it they did penance everywhere; Some lived through their old lives again.

STRANGER. In a dream; And some for an old scruple must hang spitted Upon the swaying tops of lofty trees; Some are consumed in fire, some withered up By hail and sleet out of the wintry North, And some but live through their old lives again.

YOUNG MAN. Well, let them dream into what shape they please And fill waste mountains with the invisible tumult Of the fantastic conscience. I have no dread; They cannot put me into jail or shoot me, And seeing that their blood has returned to fields, That have grown red from drinking blood like mine, They would not if they could betray.

STRANGER. This pathway Runs to the ruined Abbey of Corcomroe; The Abbey passed, we are soon among the stone And shall be at the ridge before the cocks Of Aughanish or Bailevelehan Or grey Aughtmana shake their wings and cry.

[_They go round the stage once._

FIRST MUSICIAN [_speaking_]. They’ve passed the shallow well and the flat stone Fouled by the drinking cattle, the narrow lane Where mourners for five centuries have carried Noble or peasant to his burial; An owl is crying out above their heads.

[_Singing._]

Why should the heart take fright?
What sets it beating so?
The bitter sweetness of the night
Has made it but a lonely thing.
Red bird of March, begin to crow,
Up with the neck and clap the wing,
Red cock, and crow.

[_They go round the stage once. The_ FIRST MUSICIAN _speaks_.

And now they have climbed through the long grassy field And passed the ragged thorn trees and the gap In the ancient hedge; and the tomb-nested owl At the foot’s level beats with a vague wing.

[_Singing._]

My head is in a cloud;
I’d let the whole world go;
My rascal heart is proud
Remembering and remembering.
Red bird of March, begin to crow,
Up with the neck and clap the wing,
Red cock, and crow.

[_They go round the stage once. The_ FIRST MUSICIAN _speaks_.

They are among the stones above the ash Above the briar and thorn and the scarce grass; Hidden amid the shadow far below them The cat-headed bird is crying out.

[_Singing._]

The dreaming bones cry out
Because the night winds blow
And heaven’s a cloudy blot.
Calamity can have its fling.
Red bird of March, begin to crow,
Up with the neck and clap the wing,
Red cock, and crow.

STRANGER. We’re almost at the summit and can rest. The road is a faint shadow there; and there The Abbey lies amid its broken tombs. In the old days we should have heard a bell Calling the monks before day broke to pray; And when the day has broken on the ridge, The crowing of its cocks.

YOUNG MAN. Is there no house Famous for sanctity or architectural beauty In Clare or Kerry, or in all wide Connacht, The enemy has not unroofed?

STRANGER. Close to the altar Broken by wind and frost and worn by time Donogh O’Brien has a tomb, a name in Latin. He wore fine clothes and knew the secrets of women, But he rebelled against the King of Thomond And died in his youth.

YOUNG MAN. And why should he rebel? The King of Thomond was his rightful master. It was men like Donogh who made Ireland weak-- My curse on all that troop, and when I die I’ll leave my body, if I have any choice, Far from his ivy tod and his owl; have those Who, if your tale is true, work out a penance Upon the mountain-top where I am to hide, Come from the Abbey graveyard?

YOUNG GIRL. They have not that luck, But are more lonely; those that are buried there, Warred in the heat of the blood; if they were rebels Some momentary impulse made them rebels, Or the commandment of some petty king Who hated Thomond. Being but common sinners, No callers in of the alien from oversea, They and their enemies of Thomond’s party Mix in a brief dream battle above their bones; Or make one drove; or drift in amity; Or in the hurry of the heavenly round Forget their earthly names. These are alone Being accursed.

YOUNG MAN. But if what seems is true And there are more upon the other side Than on this side of death, many a ghost Must meet them face to face and pass the word Even upon this grey and desolate hill.

YOUNG GIRL. Until this hour no ghost or living man Has spoken though seven centuries have run Since they, weary of life and of men’s eyes, Flung down their bones in some forgotten place Being accursed.

YOUNG MAN. I have heard that there are souls Who, having sinned after a monstrous fashion, Take on them, being dead, a monstrous image To drive the living, should they meet its face, Crazy, and be a terror to the dead.

YOUNG GIRL. But these Were comely even in their middle life And carry, now that they are dead, the image Of their first youth, for it was in that youth Their sin began.

YOUNG MAN. I have heard of angry ghosts
Who wander in a wilful solitude.

YOUNG GIRL. These have no thought but love; nor joy But that upon the instant when their penance Draws to its height and when two hearts are wrung Nearest to breaking, if hearts of shadows break, His eyes can mix with hers; nor any pang That is so bitter as that double glance, Being accursed.

YOUNG MAN. But what is this strange penance--
That when their eyes have met can wring them most?

YOUNG GIRL. Though eyes can meet, their lips can never meet.

YOUNG MAN. And yet it seems they wander side by side. But doubtless you would say that when lips meet And have not living nerves, it is no meeting.

YOUNG GIRL. Although they have no blood, or living nerves, Who once lay warm and live the live-long night In one another’s arms, and knew their part In life, being now but of the people of dreams, Is a dream’s part; although they are but shadows, Hovering between a thorn tree and a stone, Who have heaped up night on winged night; although No shade however harried and consumed Would change his own calamity for theirs, Their manner of life were blessed could their lips A moment meet; but when he has bent his head Close to her head, or hand would slip in hand, The memory of their crime flows up between And drives them apart.

YOUNG MAN. The memory of a crime-- He took her from a husband’s house it may be, But does the penance for a passionate sin Last for so many centuries?

YOUNG GIRL. No, no; The man she chose, the man she was chosen by Cared little and cares little from whose house They fled towards dawn amid the flights of arrows, Or that it was a husband’s and a king’s; And how, if that were all, could she lack friends, On crowded roads or on the unpeopled hill? Helen herself had opened wide the door Where night by night she dreams herself awake And gathers to her breast a dreaming man.

YOUNG MAN. What crime can stay so in the memory? What crime can keep apart the lips of lovers Wandering and alone?

YOUNG GIRL. Her king and lover Was overthrown in battle by her husband, And for her sake and for his own, being blind And bitter and bitterly in love, he brought A foreign army from across the sea.

YOUNG MAN. You speak of Dermot and of Dervorgilla
Who brought the Norman in?

YOUNG GIRL. Yes, yes, I spoke Of that most miserable, most accursed pair Who sold their country into slavery, and yet They were not wholly miserable and accursed If somebody of their race at last would say: ‘I have forgiven them.’

YOUNG MAN. Oh, never, never
Shall Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven.

YOUNG GIRL. If some one of their race forgave at last
Lip would be pressed on lip.

YOUNG MAN. Oh, never, never Shall Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven. You have told your story well, so well indeed I could not help but fall into the mood And for a while believe that it was true Or half believe; but better push on now. The horizon to the East is growing bright.

[_They go round stage once. The musicians play._

So here we’re on the summit. I can see The Aran Islands, Connemara Hills, And Galway in the breaking light; there too The enemy has toppled roof and gable; And torn the panelling from ancient rooms; What generations of old men had known Like their own hands, and children wondered at, Has boiled a trooper’s porridge. That town had lain, But for the pair that you would have me pardon, Amid its gables and its battlements Like any old admired Italian town; For though we have neither coal, nor iron ore, To make us wealthy and corrupt the air, Our country, if that crime were uncommitted, Had been most beautiful. Why do you dance? Why do you gaze, and with so passionate eyes, One on the other; and then turn away, Covering your eyes, and weave it in a dance? Who are you? what are you? you are not natural.

YOUNG GIRL. Seven hundred years our lips have never met.

YOUNG MAN. Why do you look so strangely at one another,
So strangely and so sweetly?

YOUNG GIRL. Seven hundred years.

YOUNG MAN. So strangely and so sweetly. All the ruin, All, all their handiwork is blown away As though the mountain air had blown it away Because their eyes have met. They cannot hear, Being folded up and hidden in their dance. The dance is changing now. They have dropped their eyes, They have covered up their eyes as though their hearts Had suddenly been broken--never, never Shall Dermot and Dervorgilla be forgiven. They have drifted in the dance from rock to rock. They have raised their hands as though to snatch the sleep That lingers always in the abyss of the sky Though they can never reach it. A cloud floats up And covers all the mountain head in a moment; And now it lifts and they are swept away.

[_The_ STRANGER _and the_ YOUNG GIRL _go out_.

I had almost yielded and forgiven it all-- This is indeed a place of terrible temptation.

[_The Musicians begin unfolding and folding a black cloth. The_
FIRST MUSICIAN _comes forward to the front of the stage, at the
centre. He holds the cloth before him. The other two come one
on either side and unfold it. They afterwards fold it up in the
same way. While it is unfolded, the_ YOUNG MAN _leaves the
stage_.

[_Songs for the unfolding and folding of the cloth._]

THE MUSICIANS [_singing_]